Free Death in the Orchid Garden by Ann Ripley Page A

we know lots of good places. I’ll jot down a list of them for you.”
    â€œThanks,” she said. She was grateful when she saw a waiter heading their way with a huge tray bearing four large plates with covered lids. As he turned to leave, Flynn cast a haughty glance around the terrace with its torches and palms, while the waiter looked relieved that the two interlopers were getting out of his way so he could serve the food.
    Whether they were a little weird or not, Louise envied the two ethnobotanists. At least they had the good sense to strike out from this luxury hotel. She wouldn’t mind getting away from it one of these nights.

9
    S oon after dinner, the four of them seemed ready to retire to their rooms for a good night’s sleep before the busy Friday. But first, Louise went to the hotel’s sundries store to buy a few items. The shop was called Island Rest, possibly because it had a large stock of medicines, including over-the-counter sleeping pills. Surprisingly, it was crowded with other guests doing the same thing.
    Quickly snatching up her intended purchases, a hat emblazoned with “Kauai-by-the-Sea,” a tube of 45 SPF sunblock, and a couple of pricey rolls of film, she got in line behind three others. A quibble was taking place at the front of the line, something about the fact that the shop didn’t carry the man’s favorite headache pain relief. Since she was tired, Louise wished he’d get on with it, grab a bottle of Advil, and let her have a turn at the counter.
    The dark-haired young man standing in front of her finally swung around in disgust. It was as if he had to find something in the rear of the shop to interest him and help relieve his impatience. This gave him the opportunity to stare at a whole wall full of hats of various styles, all of which carried the logo, “Kauai-by-the-Sea.”
    That was how she got acquainted with Nate Bernstein.
    â€œKind of late, isn’t it,” she said, “to get in a tizzy over pain pills.”
    â€œInsane,” muttered the young man, without even looking at Louise. “He should have brought his OxyContin from home.” He had an intelligent face. Any mother would love those liquid brown eyes.
    â€œYou’re Nate Bernstein, aren’t you? I’m Louise Eldridge. I’m the, uh . . .”
    â€œI know who you are,” said Bernstein, finally deigning to look at her. They were the same height. “You’re part of that TV shoot tomorrow at the National Tropical Botanical Garden. I had to sit and wait while you all met this afternoon to talk over things.”
    â€œYes,” she said. “I host the program. Are you coming to the shoot?”
    His lip curled, as if this were a foolish question. “Of course. Dr. Reuter will want me there.” He gave her a suspicious look. “Quite frankly, he thinks he’s being set up.”
    â€œOh, no, I mean . . . why would he think that?”
    Bernstein’s glance slid over to another part of the store, where scores of postcards were on sale. A pause, during which Louise wasn’t even sure the young man would resume talking. “Well, at heart, Ms. Eldridge . . .”
    â€œMrs. Eldridge,” she corrected.
    â€œAt heart, there’s no difference between those two characters.”
    â€œYou mean Dr. Bouting and Dr. Flynn.”
    â€œYes. Bouting Horticulture constantly needs new products to market.” He waved his strong-looking arms in a surprising gesture. “How else would they continue to make their millions and keep a throttle-hold on the wholesale plant market of North America? You got to have your bright new orange-with-yellow-tipped echinacea from New Mexico, or your hot new purple-with-green-spots species tulip from the mountain slopes of Turkey.” Those brown eyes widened. “That Bouting fellow is a sleight-of-hand artist; he goes to those places, swaps a few nonimportant Bouting brands